These Scars Run Deeper
by o.O.o.Maraudette.o.O.o
Summary: If Remus's scars came from anything other than his "furry little problem", he would never tell anyone. He's too strong for that.


_When Remus talks about his scars, you can't help but think that if they were from anything other than his "furry little problem", he'd never tell anybody. He's too strong for that._

* * *

These Scars are Deeper

I don't sleep very often, and when I do, it's never a deep sleep. I'm too afraid.

James and Sirius don't know about the real reason I have my scars. They think it's because I used to bite and tear at myself when the full moon came up. I guess they're partly right. Once in a while, I do tear at my own skin.

But my "furry little problem" isn't the only problem that I had as a child.

I was bitten young. Greyback found me in the woods at dusk – he'd changed early that night – where I was looking at the stars by a river. I didn't hear him until he was right next to me, growling and panting and smelling of sweat. I was only seven.

I woke up a few days later in the secure ward of St. Mungo's, growling loudly and tearing at my bonds. My Healer had to force me down. I scratched her and snapped at her hands. I thank God that I never actually broke skin. I was sedated.

Two days later they dragged me into a cell, with no windows. There was a thick, dark, tacky substance that looked like blood in the corner. I was scared. I had no idea what was happening. They had never explained to me.

The first change was the hardest. My skull cracked as it got longer; my spine crunched and bent over; the muscles in my legs stretched and got leaner. I could see so sharply that my head started to pound. I couldn't think for myself. The wolf took over, and that surrender was the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted: a release, an escape, a purely wild part of me that didn't need to think every second. I howled. I ran in circles. I clawed at my body, because the wolf in me didn't want to be confined to it.

Like always, the moon went down eventually, and I passed out. That was pretty much my life at seven: passing out quite a bit. I was taken back into the hospital and, two days later, my mother picked me up.

There was something wrong with her. I figured that much out straight away. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair stood on end, and her normally perfectly pressed clothes had wrinkles running her entire body. She smelled of liquor.

We took the Floo home. Immediately she sent me to the basement, locking the door behind me. I sat for hours, paced a bit, before she opened the door a crack.

"Mum! Mum, can I–"

"Shut it!" she slurred. Drunk. She chucked a piece of cheese and a chunk of bread down the stairs at me. I cried.

I remember biting my knuckles to keep the sobs from drifting up the stairs to her.

The next four years were the worst years of my life. I think, now, that my mother was trying to squish the magic and the wolf out of me. It never worked.

Every morning I climbed the stairs in a shabby overshirt and a pair of grubby socks. She fed me scraps from her plate – if she wasn't particularly hungry, which wasn't often – and sent me in the backyard to sit.

I would sit in what she deemed "Prisoner of War" position: my head thrown back, hands under me, my legs clamped together. I'd be forced to sit that way for hours, sometimes days, watching the muggle children around me. They couldn't see me. I was invisible, thanks to Mother's wand.

"Watch them!" she'd shriek, smacking my face. "Watch them! Why can't you be like that?"

Sometimes, she would tell me to clean like a Muggle. For practice. The bucket was one of my fears, and still is to this day. She would fill it with toxic chemicals and give me a sponge, then sent me to the small, airless bathroom to clean up. There were no windows. I breathed in so many chemicals that I threw up many times. After each one, I would scrub the toilet bowl to hide my shameful secret: that I wasn't strong enough to keep up with Mother's punishment.

But the worst by far, to me, was her favorite pasttime. She would take a long, braided whip out when I didn't do as she had asked – sometimes even if I did – and make me look her in the eyes as she whipped my bare chest, over and over. I'm proud to say I never let her see me cry. I was not that weak.

My transformations became almost an outlet for my anger, my sadness. Every month I relished the crunch of my bones as I surrendered to my animal instincts, howling up at her that she would _never _win, that I'd always bounce back, that I would not give in to her.

Of course, there were punishments for that too.

There was one day that I remember clearer than almost anything else. Mother had been hosting a social with her friends. She wasn't drunk, wasn't dirty, and her hair and clothes were perfectly set. She looked as I remembered her, before my bite changed everything.

I listened from the basement as the ladies laughed and giggled and gossiped. I was sitting at the foot of the stairs in my Prisoner of War stance. If she thought I had moved when she came down, I would be punished. Severely.

The ladies eventually left, but I didn't move. I hadn't been summoned. Mother left too – I never found out where – but when she came home she was in a raging temper.

"REMUS!"

I sucked in a breath and waited. The door slammed open and my mother screamed my name again. "Get your worthless bones up this stairs!"

I scrambled up. Booze. I could smell it.

"Why isn't this room cleaned?" she breathed in my face. I could see my face in her eyes.

"I–"

"Did I give you _permission _to speak?" she roared, smacking my face. It burned. "Well? Did I?"

I shook my head.

"Clean it UP!"

I hurried around the table, picking up dishes and putting them in the sink. She hovered over me, occasionally yelling an order. Once, she startled me so badly that I tripped over her foot and fell on my face, shattering a china teacup. A shard cut my cheek.

"What? Can't keep up? I'll show you, you – you abomination! _Sectumsempra!" _

My chest seared. I could feel the blood pooling around my hands as I clutched my battle wound. I couldn't breathe.

"Annette!"

I was losing consciousness. I could feel it. But thru my half-closed eyes I could see a tall, bearded figure in blue robes. He had called my mother's name.

Don't hurt her, I thought. Please. Don't hurt my mother.

.o.O.o.

I woke up. I was in my four-poster bed, and I wasn't eleven anymore. My most prominent, most beautiful scar had healed over since the... accident. It had been five years.

"Moony?"

Sirius rolled over in the bed next to mine and sat up. I was clammy. My hands had fingernail marks on the palms from clenching my fists.

"Moony? You okay?" he asked. I nodded.

"Just... just a dream. A nightmare," I said. He grimaced.

"Probably because of the full moon in a few days, eh?"

I agreed, sent him back to sleep, then drew my curtains around my bed. Let him think that my wolf was my problem. Let them think that the thing that had kept me sane for years was really the thing that haunted my dreams. Let them all think.

My scars run deeper than that.


End file.
